


A Fountain of Unspoken Words

by Astardanced77



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 20:37:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2520980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astardanced77/pseuds/Astardanced77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco has a plan. He just needs one perfect moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fountain of Unspoken Words

**Author's Note:**

> My entry into the Silencio fest, written for a prompt by Birdsofshore. It turns out writing a story without dialogue is much harder than it sounds!
> 
>  **Prompt Number** : [ [22](https://sites.google.com/site/hpsilencio/prompts)  
>  **Title:**  A Fountain of Unspoken Words  
>  **Username** : AStarDanced77  
>  **Beta(s)** :  S  
>  **Pairing(s)/Character(s)** : Harry/Draco  
>  **Disclaimer** : Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.  
>  **Rating** : PG-13  
>  **Warnings (Highlight to view)** :*[None]*  
>  **Word Count** 2,215 words  
>  **Summary** : Draco has a plan. He just needs one perfect moment.  
>  **Author Notes** : Thanks to S for the reading and the suggestions. Birds, your prompt intrigued me, so I picked it, even though I was a bit nervous writing for you! I went through a lot of different scenario’s before I settled on this one. The ending is a touch ambiguous but I’m betting it will be a happy one :-) I hope you enjoy it.

The important words in Draco Malfoy’s life have always been left unsaid.

His parents had rarely told him they loved him. Draco hadn’t needed them to; their love had permeated his young life. In hindsight, he knew his family had been seen by outsiders to be cold and aloof but, to him, they had been his everything. Nor had that changed as he had grown. He had felt his mother’s affection every time he had opened a parcel to find his favourite sweets. A new coat signalled concern for his health; a new book showed her acknowledgement of his interests. Letters from his father invariably enclosed a shiny new Galleon. More importantly, they spoke of his father’s love and pride for his only son.

Even during the years of terror, as his father struggled to come to terms with his worst mistake, Draco had known that his parents’ greatest fears had not been for themselves but for him. His mother’s desperate fear was no less overwhelming for being unspoken. Draco’s own fear had coloured almost everything about his sixth year, with one glaring exception. Lying in a pool of his own blood in the fifth floor girls’ bathroom, he had felt no fear, just simple relief to think that it was over. And yet, it was his mother’s unspoken love that had saved him. The bond created by an Unbreakable Vow had alerted Professor Snape to Draco’s injury in time to heal him.

And while to the world it looked like Potter had saved him—first from fire and then from the consequences of his own stupidity—it was his mother’s actions that allowed Potter to argue for Draco’s freedom. To Draco, it seemed that once again, her love had saved him.  

In the aftermath of the trials, after he had watched his father accept his punishment with characteristic grace and uncharacteristic humility, Draco had been whisked away to France by his mother. The first few months had been spent in almost total silence as they worked through their demons. Draco healed, reflected, read, pondered and, most importantly, learned from his mistakes all the while supported by his mother’s love, unstated yet omnipresent. When, several years later, he decided to return to England, she had sent him off with directions to an excellent real estate agency and a rain-repelling cloak, all the important words still left unsaid.

So Harry had come as something of a shock when he had bounded back into Draco’s life like an overenthusiastic puppy, keen to make amends and start anew. He had collared Draco in the halls of the Ministry one day and dragged him off to deliver a determined apology for the ‘bathroom incident’, through which Draco struggled not to squirm. Then there were owls, interoffice memos and ‘casual’ dropping by the office to invite Draco to drinks at the Leaky or a pick-up game of Quidditch. Hermione quickly got in on the act, forwarding scholarly articles she thought Draco might like. Ron took longer, but the day he appeared at Draco’s office door with two tickets to see the Weird Sisters in concert was the day Draco gave in and accepted the hand of friendship being so relentlessly offered.

Even in hindsight, Draco has trouble understanding how they had gotten from friendship to this. He can remember the first kiss, a slightly sloppy affair on a street corner near Draco’s flat after a few too many drinks at the Leaky. It plays in his memory with startling clarity now—a brush of his cheek with a gentle hand, the first hesitant touch of lips followed quickly by a far less gentle grasp of his hip and a determined foray into genuine snogging. He had reeled home that night, tingling and confused, to stare at his bedroom ceiling for hours in aroused stupefaction. But his fears of being a drunken experiment were unfounded. Harry had appeared at his door the next morning with a bottle of Hangover Potion, a nervous smile and a reservation for brunch at Draco’s favourite café.

It was all Harry, of course; Draco doesn’t think he would have dared. But Harry had dragged them through the modern stages of courtship—dating, shagging, then finally co-habitating—with characteristic determination, never letting the disapproval of others slow him down. And now they sit together in their library, quietly reading (well, Harry at least is reading), and Draco thinks he can’t imagine anything better.

It shouldn’t work, of course. Harry is the poster-child for law-and-order, the deputy-Head Auror and ex-Saviour of the Wizarding World, and Draco is a reserved potions researcher with a decidedly dodgy background. Harry is all explosive action and charming smiles; Draco has learned the hard way to think long and hard before committing himself to anything. Harry wears his heart on his sleeve and Draco…doesn’t.

Harry is all about words. There are so many words, in fact, that it takes a while before Draco sees the gaps; Harry never talks about his childhood. At first, Draco doesn’t think much of it. They have their future in front of them and though he doesn’t say so, all Draco’s visions of his future feature Harry in them. And their present is new and exciting in ways Draco had never imagined.

It takes a long and uncomfortable conversation with Ginevra Weasley of all people before Draco begins to understand. Having heard just a small amount about Harry’s childhood, Draco thinks it is frankly a miracle that Harry has such capacity for love at all. He also thinks it’s a good thing he doesn’t know where the Dursleys live. He knows Harry has forgiven them long ago, but he’s not sure he ever will.

Draco feels the flush of anger that inevitably accompanies thoughts of the Dursleys pass across his skin. He focuses on keeping his breathing steady and calm, trying not to attract Harry’s attention. Harry is disturbingly good at dealing with Draco’s moods. His response to this one would probably involve flying clothes and wandless summoning of lube and while Draco’s not usually opposed to that kind of thing, he still has thinking to do.      

Even knowing about the neglect and abuse of Harry’s childhood, Draco struggles to comprehend the message Ginevra was clearly trying to convey. Because surely Harry must know how Draco feels. Draco can feel it written all over his face whenever Harry looks at him. Can feel it deep inside his bones when Harry touches him. Can hear it in the frantic beating of his heart when Harry enters him.  Draco is a card-carrying fool for Harry Potter. He knows it. Judging by the knowing looks and the almost smirks, everyone else in his life knows it. But somehow, incredibly, it seems that Harry himself doesn’t.

So Draco had developed a plan. An extravagant and fanciful plan far more suited to a Gryffindor than Draco was entirely comfortable with. He would ask Harry to marry him. He would tell Harry all the things that Harry needed to hear in one grand romantic gesture. With flowers and candlelight. It was bold, daring and frankly a little bit terrifying. And it wasn’t going well.

His first attempt had been for a romantic dinner at Harry’s favourite restaurant followed by moonlit stroll along the riverbank. Draco had planned it all—the menu, the wine, the speech. Only there had been an unexpected stakeout and Harry had arrived home, exhausted and covered in cobwebs and other, mercifully undefined, grime, sometime in the wee hours of the next morning.

Attempt number two had involved a surprise getaway on a Mediterranean island. Draco had, with Ron’s astonishingly discreet assistance, smuggled Harry’s passport out to the visa office, made the bookings and packed the bags. He was foiled by the unexpected arrival of Miss Rose Weasley, several weeks early. Watching Harry cooing softly at the baby in his arms, Draco couldn’t even be sorry his plans had fallen through.

The next attempt was less enjoyable. Draco had tried again with the weekend away, this time to a little cottage in the Cotswolds (the visa office being markedly less helpful in the absence of a hulking Ron in his Auror robes). This time it was a raid gone wrong. Draco spent the majority of the weekend on the hard visitor’s chairs in St Mungo’s, clasping the hand of a heavily sedated and snoring Harry on the bed in front of him.  

Draco had given up after that. It seemed to him that to keep trying was to court disaster. (In a tiny part of his brain, one Draco will never reveal to a living soul, he superstitiously fears that he is asking for too much. That the universe will see the happiness he has and take it from him.) He tells himself it is all for the best: that he’s not the type of person that makes grand speeches and, anyway, Harry is perfectly happy with him the way he is. That he never really wanted to make a fool of himself in public and why rock the boat if you don’t have to?

And yet, despite all this, he is still carrying around the ring. Every night, he hides the small box in his secret drawer and thinks that will be the end of it. But every morning he slips it back into the hidden pocket in his robes. He tells himself it is just for safekeeping but deep down Draco knows that’s a lie. He just doesn’t know what to do about it.  

It probably doesn’t matter anyway. It’s only a matter of time before Harry does the deed himself. He’s probably already started planning; Draco’s seen the signs. An ever-so-casual conversation about Draco’s favourite gemstones, followed a few days later by a debate on the relative merits of gold and platinum. Shortly, Harry will start sneaking out of the office at lunch to meet with the travel agent and Draco will know proposal is immanent. Harry likes to think he is subtle and so Draco has never told him how obvious he is. Or how unspeakably charming his obviousness is.

Maybe it’s just the natural order of things. Harry has always led the way in their relationship. If it was up to Draco, they’d probably still be flirting weakly over Friday night drinks at the Leaky. So, what would it matter if he did this bit, too? Harry’s more suited to heartfelt speeches anyway—he’s been making them for years, one more won’t hurt. He’s surprisingly good at them too, considering his history. It’s not like he had great role models in his Muggle relatives. They probably never told him they loved him, not even—oh.

And finally he understands. Harry says the words because no-one ever said them to him. This is what Ginevra was trying to tell him. The seeing isn’t enough, Harry needs to hear it as well. For all the support and dedication and love that his friends and adopted family have given him, Harry needs something more. Amazingly, wonderfully, inexplicably, he wants to hear that something more from Draco.

Because for Harry, they aren’t just words; they are a promise. A commitment. I love you—simple words to carry so much intent. Always—a promise for a shared future.  And the words that Draco suddenly realises he actually desperately wants to say.

Draco runs a hand over the hidden pocket in his robes. Inside, he can feel the slightly rounded edges of the box pressing against his hip. This, then, is the truth. He’s been carrying around this box because deep down he is still waiting for the right moment, the ‘perfect’ moment.  He’s been so busy looking for the storybook romance he thought Harry would want that he hasn’t seen what is right in front of him: that every moment is the right moment, every moment is perfect because he gets to spend it with Harry. Harry who snores when he’s tired, leaves his wet towel in the middle of the bathroom floor, who insists on washing the dishes the Muggle way and with whom Draco wants to spend the rest of his life. Harry, who is sitting five feet away, quietly reading, in their favourite room in the house they share. Could any moment possibly be more perfect?

Draco slips the ring box out of his pocket and rises to his feet. As he walks, Harry looks up and smiles, opening his mouth to speak then shutting it again as Draco raises a hand. Standing in front of Harry’s chair, Draco looks down into the face he wants to see smiling at him every day of forever. Taking a deep breath, Draco sinks slowly down on one knee and opens his mouth to speak.

 

The End.


End file.
